My soul, come meditate the day

My soul, come meditate the day, And think how near it stands, When thou must quit this house of clay, And fly to unknown lands.

[And you, mine eyes, look down and view The hollow gaping tomb, This gloomy prison waits for you Whene'er the summons come.]

O could we die with those that die, And place us in their stead, Then would our spirits learn to fly, And converse with the dead:

Then should we see the saints above In their own glorious forms, And wonder why our souls should love To dwell with mortal worms.

[How we should scorn these clothes of flesh, These fetters and this load! And long for evening to undress, That we may rest with God.]

We should almost forsake our clay Before the summons come, And pray, and wish our souls away To their eternal home.

Hymn 2:62. God the thunderer; or, The last judgment and hell.*

Sing to the Lord, ye heavenly hosts, And thou, O earth, adore, Let death and hell thro' all their coasts, Stand trembling at his power.

His sounding chariot shakes the sky, He makes the clouds his throne, There all his stores of lightning lie, Till vengeance dart them down.

His nostrils breathe out fiery streams, And from his awful tongue A sovereign voice divides the flames, And thunder roars along.

Think, O my soul, the dreadful day When this incensed God Shall rend the sky, and burn the sea, And fling his wrath abroad.

What shall the wretch the sinner do? He once defy'd the Lord; But he shall dread the Thunderer now, And sink beneath his word.

Tempests of angry fire shall roll To blast the rebel-worm, And beat upon his naked soul In one eternal storm.

* Made in a great sudden storm of thunder, August 20, 1697.

Hymn 2:63. A funeral thought.

Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound, My ears attend the cry, "Ye living men, come view the ground "Where you must shortly lie.

"Princes, this clay must be your bed, "In spite of all your towers; "The tall, the wise, the reverend head "Must lie as low as ours."

Great God, is this our certain doom? And are we still secure? Still walking downward to our tomb, And yet prepare no more?

Grant us the powers of quickening grace To fit our souls to fly, Then, when we drop this dying flesh, We'll rise above the sky.